by Lauren Rowe
“Sounds good,” she says. “Better than good.”
I breathe deeply, my body electrified. This woman’s a dream come true.
“So let’s talk about the whole watching-me-with-another-woman fantasy,” she says. “Who’s she gonna be? How are we gonna find her?”
“She can be anyone you want, as long as she’s clean. Look in my sick fuck folder if you want. I’m sure Henn could track any of those ladies down.”
She makes a face. “I deleted that folder.”
“Oh, baby, my computer backs up daily. It’s in The Cloud.”
She rolls her eyes.
I laugh.
“No wonder you didn’t get mad at me. And here I thought you were so Zen.” She shrugs. “Well, I don’t wanna do it with one of those girls. I want someone new.”
“That’s fine.”
She looks on edge.
I cup her face in my hand. “Hey, if you’re not into it, we don’t have to do that one. I mean, if this were real life, I never would have told you about that whole thing in the first place.”
“What do you mean ‘if this were real life’? This isn’t real life?”
I’m stumped. Of course, this isn’t real life. This is Las Vegas. This is saving the world. This is fantasy-fulfillment. “I meant, if we were, you know, dating like usual. If you hadn’t read my application. Due to the circumstances, you know stuff about me no other woman ever has.”
There’s an awkward silence.
“We don’t have to do the thing with another woman. Seriously,” I say.
She sighs. “Josh, I want to do it. I wanna pretend I’m just a girl in The Club and that you’ve paid to do whatever you did with all those girls, exactly the way you did it.” She pauses. “Wait, no. Not exactly. I don’t want you to touch the other woman. Not a pinky.”
“I know. We already agreed to that. I wouldn’t even want to touch the other girl, honestly. Not if I was with you. That’d be like macking down on canned Spaghetti O’s when I’ve got a plate of homemade pasta right in front of me.” I touch the slight cleft in her chin. “A pretty dumb thing to do.”
Her cheeks flush. “But it’s still gonna turn you on? Even though you’ve already done it with all those girls?”
“Honestly, I was pretty done with the whole thing after my month in The Club—it gets kinda old after you’ve done it a couple times, especially when you don’t give a shit about either woman. But the thought of doing it with you.” I shudder with arousal at the very thought. I stroke her hair for a moment. “I’ve never gotten to do it with someone I’m...” I stop myself from saying anything more. I bite my lip and drop my hand from her hair. Shit.
“Someone you’re what?” she asks, her interest obviously piqued. She tilts her head.
“Someone I’m...” I stop again. Nope. I really shouldn’t say that to her.
“What?”
There’s a long beat.
“What were you gonna say, Josh?” she asks. She weaves her fingers into mine. “Tell me.”
I clear my throat. “I’ve never gotten to do it with someone I’m really attracted to beyond the physical,” I say softly.
She smirks. “That’s really sweet. Thank you. But it’s not what you were about to say.”
I pause. I can’t say what I was gonna say. It’s too much too soon.
“Someone what?” she prompts. “Come on. We’re still playing the honesty-game, aren’t we?”
“I’ve never gotten to do it with someone I’m in a relationship with,” I say evenly.
There’s a long silence.
Shit.
Fuck.
She’s just staring at me, not saying anything, her hand interwoven in mine.
What am I doing? What am I saying? Why isn’t she saying anything?
I pull my hand out of hers and run it through my hair. Goddammit. I should have just said “someone I’m dating.” That would have been a safer bet. But are Kat and I even dating? I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. This whole time in Vegas together has been so bizarre and concentrated and amazing—I can’t make heads or tails of what we’d call what we’re doing in real life.
Kat sighs and sets her jaw, apparently coming to some sort of decision.
“I think we should be exclusive,” she says definitively.
My heart physically stops beating for a second. Holy fucking shit.
“At least during this fantasy-exchange thing,” she adds quickly.
My stomach bursts with butterflies. My cheeks burst into flames. “Yeah, good idea,” I say quickly. “I think so, too.”
Her face is on fire. “Because I like not using condoms with you,” she continues. “I like feeling you inside me with nothing between us. But I’m only willing to continue that way if we’re exclusive.”
“I agree.” Now my heart is racing. Holy shit. My chest physically hurts. “Shit, I don’t wanna go back to condoms, ever, as long as I live.” Oh shit. What am I saying? What did I just imply?
“Good.” Her cheeks flush. “Condoms are hereby banished. Gone.” She clears her throat. “For as long as you want.” She takes a deep breath. “You know, at least during the time while we’re”—she takes another deep gulp of air—“doing our fantasy thing.” She makes a weird face.
I nod, my heart still racing like a runaway train. “Agreed.”
“Good,” she says. “Yep. Done. Exclusive.”
“Yep. We’re officially exclusive as of right now. You and me.”
She grins. “Okay. Good.”
“Great.”
“I’m all yours.”
My entire body jolts at the sound of those three words. I’m all yours, she just said to me. Holy hot fucking damn, I’ve got to sit down.
“Okay,” she says, almost to herself. She exhales loudly. “Cool.”
“Cool,” I say.
We sit and stare at each other, smiling, neither of us speaking.
I feel like my IQ just went down fifty points. My brain isn’t functioning.
What exactly did we just agree to? She suggested being exclusive just for purposes of our little fantasy-fulfillment exchange. Does that mean we’re not in an actual relationship—that we’re some kind of exclusive fuck buddies? Because it sure feels like this girl’s a helluva lot more than my fuck buddy. Fuck, I should ask her for clarification. But I’m not sure I wanna hear her answer.
I clear my throat. “So when are you gonna have your period? We should plan your trip to L.A. around that.”
She grins. “I’m not. I take extended birth control pills. No period. I’ve got a year’s worth of pills and I’m only two months in.”
I smile broadly. “Excellent.”
“So no break in our perverted activities will be required for the foreseeable future. Well, at least not on account of my period, anyway. Stuff like work and life will surely get in the way—and the fact that we don’t live in the same city ought to throw a wrench in things, for sure.”
“Why? It’s less than a two-hour flight from Seattle to L.A. I can get a hard-on at ten and, if I charter a flight for you, you’ll be at my house, sucking it by twelve thirty.”
She bursts out laughing. “You’re so gross.”
“That’s not gross. That’s romantic.”
She laughs. “You’d charter a flight just to get a blowjob?”
“I can’t think of a better reason to charter a flight. Especially if the blowjob was gonna be from you. Damn.”
She laughs again. “Well, okay, but what about work? Don’t you have a company to run or something? Now that I think about it, how come you never seem to have to work?”
“Well, actually, I’m kinda between jobs at the moment. Not officially, but...” I lean in close to her and touch her golden hair. “Jonas and I are about to start a new business together. We haven’t made a public announcement yet, so this is actually confidential, but we’re both leaving Faraday & Sons to start something new.”
“Wow. Really? Congratulatio
ns. What is it?”
“I can’t tell you—not because I don’t trust you—I do. But I promised my brother I wouldn’t tell anyone about our new business before we’ve told our Uncle William in person—he runs Faraday & Sons with us—and I never break a promise to Jonas. Well, not to anyone—but especially not to Jonas.”
Her face melts into an expression much like the one she had when she opened her hotel room door to me last night. “I can’t wait to hear all about it whenever you’re allowed to tell me,” she says softly.
“I can’t wait to tell you. If Jonas and I can pull it off the way we envision it, it’s gonna be epic—well, the way Jonas envisions it—my brother’s always the one with the big ideas—I’m just along for the ride, doing what I can to make myself useful.”
She smiles and her blue eyes twinkle. “I’m sure it’s gonna be amazing, whatever it is, Josh.”
I pause. I was about to say something, but I suddenly forgot what it was. She’s so fucking beautiful; occasionally, I lose my concentration when I look at her.
“So, hey,” I say, looking at my watch. “We’re meeting Henn in the lobby in about seven hours, so I think we’d better get some sleep. We’d better have our wits about us while we’re saving the world tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m a freakin’ zombie right now. At some point, I’m definitely gonna need a full eight hours of sleep—you’re killing me, smalls.”
“Eh, we can sleep when we’re dead, PG. Speaking of which, how ’bout before we sleep, you get that hot little body of yours into my bed and let me make good on that rain check from our shower?”
“Aren’t you the one who just said we need to get some sleep for tomorrow?”
I wave my hand. “I meant we need sleep after I give you the best orgasm of your life.”
Her eyes light up. “You sure you’re up to it? That rain check was for you to go for the gold.”
I lean in and kiss her slowly, taking my sweet time, grasping the back of her neck firmly as I do, and she ignites under my touch. When I pull away from her, there’s no mistaking the heat in her eyes.
“I’m positive,” I say, leering at her. “There’s no point in doing it if I don’t do it phenomenally, right?”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Chapter 13
Kat
Josh, Henn and I are sitting in a dive bar in Henderson, Nevada, just down the street from the fifth and final bank of this morning’s money-stealing tour. As far as we know, every single money-transfer went off without a hitch, exactly according to plan—but all we can do now is sit and wait to hear from Jonas to find out whether or not the feds were able to access the money.
“Just say as little as possible,” Henn coached me this morning as we stood across the street from the first bank on our agenda. “Be pleasant and polite but completely unmemorable,” he added—but then he looked me up and down and rolled his eyes. “Which is like telling LeBron James or an Oompah-Loompah not to be memorable.”
“Henn, come on,” I whined, trembling. “I’m freaking out. Just tell me exactly what to do.”
“Don’t freak out, Kat,” Josh said, putting his muscled arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “You’ve got this.”
“Indubitably,” Henn agreed.
I rubbed my face. “Just tell me exactly what to do,” I said, my voice wobbling. “Because I’d rather not go to prison for robbing a bank today.”
“Well, you wouldn’t go to prison for ‘robbing a bank,’” Henn corrected. “You’d go to prison for multiple counts of bank fraud, grand theft larceny, identity theft, and conspiracy, probably.” He snorted with laughter, but neither Josh nor I joined him.
“Dude,” Josh said.
“Not at all funny,” I added, gritting my teeth.
“Sorry,” Henn said, stifling his grin. “Hacker humor. Gotta keep things light and bright or else you go a little cuckoo. But, okay, listen up. When you go in there, just think, ‘I’m filthy rich and this is my money and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with it.’ It’s all in the attitude. You gotta have swagger.”
“Just like baggin’ a babe,” Josh added, winking.
“Exactly—except, for God’s sake, don’t ‘dick it up.’” Henn cast a snarky look at Josh. “That might work in a bar, dude, but we’re in my house now.”
Even through my anxiety, I couldn’t help but grin.
Henn grinned. “And never flirt. You’ll be too nervous and it’ll come off as weird. Just open with a simple pleasantry to get your nerves out—maybe like, ‘how’s your morning going?’—and then, boom, launch into instructing the teller about the transfer in a clear, calm voice. Don’t explain why you want the transfer or act apologetic—they’re not doing you a favor here—it’s your money.”
“Jesus,” I mumbled, putting my hands over my face. “You guys really think I can pull this off?”
“Of course,” Henn said. “The trick is to be Oksana Belenko—not pretend to be Oksana Belenko.”
“Wax on, wax off, Kat,” Josh added reverently.
I laughed. “I know, right? Henn’s totally Mr. Miyagi-ing me right now.”
Henn rolled his eyes and forged ahead. “You already look the part—thanks to Josh’s impeccable sense of style—now all you have to do is be the part.”
I looked down at my ridiculously priced designer outfit—Prada dress, Louboutin heels, and Gucci bag—all supplied by Josh the day before during a whirlwind shopping spree. “Oksana Belenko wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than Prada,” he’d insisted.
“I have to admit, being dressed like a mill-i-on-aire definitely makes me feel more Oksana-Belenko-ish,” I said, staring at the bank across the street. I tried to smile breezily, but I couldn’t do it.
Josh assessed my ashen face for a long beat. “Henn, give us a minute,” he said, and without waiting for Henn’s reply, he cupped my entire head in his palms like a bowling ball and kissed me full on the mouth. When he pulled away from kissing me, still holding my head firmly, he leveled me with his sapphire-blue eyes. “You’ve got this, Katherine Ulla Morgan,” he said quietly, gazing with intensity into my eyes—and then he did the thing that’s rapidly becoming my Achilles’ heel: he gently touched the slight indentation in my chin.
And, just like that, my stomach stopped turning over and my jaw set.
I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Freak-out officially over.”
Josh kissed my forehead. “There’s my girl. Okay, Henn,” he called over his shoulder. “Oksana’s ready to rob a bank now.”
“Yeehaw,” Henn replied. “Oksanta Claus is coming to town, bitches. Let’s do this.”
And now here we are, an hour and a half later, all transfers completed, drinking beers and Patron shots in a seedy bar, waiting to hear from Jonas.
Just like Henn promised, the whole thing went off without a hitch (or so it seems thus far). Each and every bank believed, without a doubt, that I was the one and only mill-i-on-aire (many times over) Oksana Belenko—and therefore entitled to do whatever I pleased with my millions of dollars. Of course, I crapped my Stella McCartney panties (another gift from Josh) every single time I waltzed into yet another new bank and informed the teller of my desire to close my account—especially when a teller went to get his or her manager for “standard approvals.” But, each and every time, my panty-crapping turned out to be completely wasted energy because no matter the approvals or security clearances or identification required at any particular bank, thanks to Henn, I always checked out as Oksana Belenko.
Indubitably.
Josh throws his head back, laughing at something Henn just said.
I sip my beer, still trying to get the shakes out.
“‘Oksanta Claus is coming to town’?” Josh says, laughing. “Where do you come up with the shit you say, Henn?”
Henn shrugs. “I just get divine inspiration, what can I say?”
The waitress passes our table and Josh flags her. “Another round, p
lease.” He holds up an empty shot glass and shoots her a panty-melting smile.
The waitress visibly swoons. “You got it, sugar.”
I bring my beer to my lips again, and my hand visibly shakes.
“You okay, Kat?” Josh asks.
“Yeah.” But the truth is, I feel like I’m gonna barf—and not from the Patron. Today was insane. It’s one thing to want to do something outrageously scary to help your best friend, and it’s quite another to physically force yourself to actually do it while crapping your pretty undies the entire time. As I found out today, thinking about doing something brave (or tremendously stupid) and doing it are two very different things.
“Do you need—” Josh begins, but his phone rings and we all jump.
“Here we go,” Henn says, rubbing his hands together.
Josh puts his phone to his ear, his eyes bugging out. “Jonas,” he says evenly, and then he listens. “Oh, thank God.” He addresses Henn and me. “We did it, guys. They got it all.”
Henn fist-pumps the air, but all I can do is lean back in my chair, my body melting with outrageous relief.
“We’re in a bar in Henderson,” Josh says. He looks around and his eyes fall on a television behind the bar. “Yeah, they’ve got one, but it’s not on.” He listens for a moment and rolls his eyes. “Really? We’ve been sitting here wondering this whole fucking time, shitting our pants, and you didn’t—” He listens again and smiles wickedly. “Oh. Well, then I forgive you.” He snickers. “I’m sure you were. Okay, we’ll turn on the TV and check it out. I’ll call you right back.” Josh flags the waitress. “Hey, could you turn on the TV—put it on the news?”
“Sure, sweetie.” She walks over to the bartender, says something, and the TV comes on—and, literally, instantly, there’s no doubt our crafty little Oceans’ Eleven crew has hit a grand slam homerun.
“Just keep it here,” Josh calls to the bartender.
On the screen, a female reporter is talking into the camera while a banner declaring “Terrorist Threat Foiled in Las Vegas” scrolls beneath her. Behind the reporter, law enforcement officers in Kevlar vests are marching in and out of a cement building, carrying boxes.
